


Giving Thanks

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Thanksgiving story.





	Giving Thanks

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Giving Thanks by Mick C.

27 Nov 1997

DISCLAIMER: The X-Files, belongs to 1013, Chris Carter and all the others hooked up to the 'hit series' money train. I, personally, and not making a dime off these guys. The story below is purely for my own enjoyment and that of my friends.  
This story has not been Beta'd. Any mistakes or incomprehensibilities are my own. Spoilers up to current eppys abound.  
Happy Turkey Day to all. Hug your loved ones and think about all you have to be thankful for.   
M/K didn't have a Thanksgiving story for their Holiday page, so I thought I'd do one.

ARCHIVE INFO: When archived all headers must remain intact.  
Gossamer: No  
MKRA: Yes  
XSlash: Yes  
Other X-Slash Sites: Yes  
Misc. Sites: Ask me. I'll probably say yes.  
Ratings: R for language  
E-mail: 

* * *

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Giving Thanks  
by Mick C.  
November, 1997

Mulder looked up from his laptop as a small, unfamiliar noise reached him. He went still, cataloging every sound, swiftly eliminating each one as belonging to the regular, nighttime sounds of his apartment and the surrounding building.

There is was again.

He only just prevented himself from looking upward, toward the light fixture. He could hear it moving slightly, little bits of loose plaster pattering softly against the frosted glass.

"God, DAMN it," Mulder hissed with barely suppressed rage. He rose, stretched nonchalantly and moved over to the sideboard where he kept his back-up gun while at home. Blocking sight of his hands with his body, he tucked the automatic into the waistband of his sweats and pulled his tee-shirt over it. Grabbing some duct tape and a utility knife from the drawer, he snagged his keys and exited the apartment casually, as if on some just remembered fix-it errand.

He crept up the stairs, only realizing as his stocking feet hit the bare boards of the stairs, that putting on shoes might have added more credence to his sudden exit from the apartment. He didn't really care at this point. Whoever was in the apartment above him was about to have serious discussion with Fox Mulder. His anger did a nice slow build as he marvelled at the audacity of the people stalking his every move. That they thought they could replace their spying operation above him and get away with it galled him beyond belief.

His steps slowed as he approached the door and he carefully set the tape and knife on the floor just behind him, while his thoughts chased themselves in circles around his brain. Maybe they didn't think they could get away with it. Maybe it was some kind of trick, or maybe they thought it was the last place he would suspect for a long time. Mulder shook his head, clearing the momentary confusion. Someone was in the apartment above him, fucking with the light fixture that had recently housed a camera and microphone. That was certain. He was going to act on that certainty and damn everything else.

He cautiously touched the door and to his surprise, it moved slightly, a broad edge of black appearing as it moved inward.

It was open.

He flattened himself back against the wall, waiting for a hail of bullets or the sound of a body hurtling toward him in full attack mode. 

There was only silence.

Had they gone? Had they fled as soon as he went to the sideboard? He'd heard no sound coming up the stairs. He'd been listening. He looked at the undisturbed edge of darkness once more and decided that they must have left quickly, not quite pulling the door shut behind them. Still unable to relax, despite the absence of sound and motion, he crouched and did a low rolling dive into the room, pushing the door open with his shoulder as he went. He kept himself low, his gun, held in the required, relaxed double-handed grip, moved in a jerking dance as he searched for targets in the room, hoping the hallway light from the open door would obligingly fix a target for him and helpfully dazzle the eyesight of anyone drawing down on him.

An incongruous thought filtered through the adrenaline fire burning through his brain as he scanned the room for presence.

'Why do I smell sage dressing?'

As if on cue, a dry voice cut through the shadowed darkness.

"Nice moves, Mulder. Textbook, actually." A match flared, illuminating the face of Alex Krycek, who was bending forward to light a long, golden candle. "Funny, I didn't think you did anything by the book." The warm light of the flickering flame caught the gleaming edge of his quick smile.

Mulder surged to his feet, fighting confusion as he always did whenever Krycek put in an appearance. "Alex Krycek, you are under arrest for..."

"Cut the crap, Mulder. We don't have a lot of time, you know." Krycek moved past him unconcernedly to close the door.

Mulder reached for him, angry at the casual disregard. His finger's closed on the sleeve of Krycek's jacket--and kept closing. There was nothing there but fabric.

Krycek stopped, not looking at him.

Mulder's mind flashed through a series of horrifying memories. He dropped the empty sleeve as if burned. 

"Tunguska?"

"Yeah." The acknowledgment was quiet and without rancor. "The loss makes life interesting. For instance," Krycek shut the door with a snap, and turned back toward the small table set for two, "I couldn't get the fucking wine open." Again that small, sardonic smile flashed briefly in the candle light. "I thought I'd leave that for you."

Mulder desperately gathered the shreds of his composure and tried, again, sliding his eyes away from the sight of Krycek shrugging out of the leather jacket..

"Alex Krycek, I hereby place you under arrest for..."

"Do you like cranberry sauce? I hate the stuff personally, but some people act like it's a life crisis if they don't have it to go with the bird." Krycek started opening Styrofoam containers in various sizes and transferring the contents to the plates set opposite each other on the small table.

"You killed my father." At a loss for what to do next, Mulder fell back on the old standby.

"Did not." Krycek continued setting out the meal.

"You're a Russian agent! You set me up. You left me to die!" Mulder felt perverse satisfaction in the return of his biting anger, the vague feelings of guilt and remorse being swept away by the rising tide.

"Yes, I am a Russian agent, and American one too. I didn't set you up. I went with you because you were damned and determined to go anyway, and well," Mulder stared unbelievingly as Krycek had the gall to smile at him, "I knew the territory. I was working to get you out of there, Mulder, no matter what I said in front of the guards. *I* was in no trouble, but you sure as hell were. I had things almost set to go when you screwed everything up in your usual spectacular fashion."

Mulder was about to voice an outraged protest at this statement when he caught sight of the empty sleeve. Suddenly, the outrage was gone, along with his power of speech.

"Sit. Everything gets cold so quickly." Krycek steered him around to the empty chair and pressed him into it, handing over the bottle of wine for him to open.

"I don't understand this. What is this about?" Mulder's hands occupied themselves with the familiar task of cork removal.

"It's about giving thanks, Mulder. A strange American ritual, but rather endearing, I think." Krycek's smile had that mocking edge again, and he somehow managed to get his eyes to twinkle in the soft light.

"Giving *thanks*?!" Mulder set the bottle down with a thump. "Thanks for what, you murdering..."

"Don't." 

Mulder paused, and saw unvoiced pleading in the dark eyes across from him. He cleared his throat roughly and started again. "Refresh my memory, Krycek. What is it exactly we're being thankful for?" Mulder settled back in his chair, preparing to be difficult, arms folded across his chest to protect him from the man who affected him in ways to numerous to mention.

"Well, let me see...and eat while I talk." Krycek nodded toward Mulder's untouched plate. "I'm still alive, and nearly intact--which was highly unlikely scenario for a long stretch of time. Your precious Scully's still alive and cancer free. You're still alive and causing endless amounts of trouble. And my God, Mulder, what is this I hear about you letting some quack drill holes in your head! You're a fucking lunatic, I swear..."

"You should be thankful for that, Krycek. Otherwise, I wouldn't be sitting here eating a Thanksgiving dinner with you." Mulder picked up a fork and tasted the sage dressing that'd been tickling his nose since he'd entered the room. "This is good."

"Don't you ever fucking do that again." Krycek's voice held a note of strain that made Mulder glance up sharply.

"What?" Mulder sat back in amazement as a furious Krycek leaned into the candle light, eyes blazing.

"Fake your death. Fucking suicide. Suicide, for Christ's sake! Blowing your damned face off so no one can see whether it's you..." Krycek broke off with a choking sound. "I thought you were dead."

Mulder felt as if he'd stepped into the Twilight Zone as a single tear coursed it's way down Krycek's cheek, and he fought with himself to keep the, 'I'm sorry' from escaping his lips. He looked down at his plate and decided to shovel a forkful of turkey and mashed potatoes into his mouth instead.

"I hate cranberry sauce too," Mulder commented after an extended pause. He sneaked a look at Krycek and decided it was safe to look up from his plate. "Everyone's been bitching at me about that other thing." His non sequitur didn't seem to faze Krycek, who'd decided that looking at his own plate was a wonderful idea.

"I went to the morgue. I had to be sure." Krycek's sentences were uttered in short, jerking exhalations, as if fighting to be released from somewhere deep inside. 

Mulder decided it was time to pour the wine and filled both the waiting glasses to the brim. Krycek seized his immediately and swallowed half the contents in one gulp. Mulder topped it off, then set the bottle gently on the table top. The soft thud seemed to free Krycek's vocal cords.

"The place was like a fucking hot zone. There were about five different agencies crawling all over everything to do with you. It was damned hard..." Krycek filled his mouth with food and chewed, giving himself a moment. "I was about to do something drastic when I found out you were alive and stirring up trouble." Mulder gaped at the fond look Krycek flashed him. "The after shocks are still being felt, you know." Krycek chuckled, then his voice shifted into something cooler and utterly serious. "Next time I hear you're dead, you'd better by God be really dead or I'll kill you myself. More turkey?"

Mulder held out his plate, letting Krycek refill it.

They ate in surprisingly companionable silence for awhile.

Mulder sat back and rubbed his stomach. "That was good. Thank you." He laughed as Krycek flashed him a surprised look. "I do have *some* social skills, you know." He stretched, curling and twisting, trying not to notice how carefully the man opposite watched him. He settled again, letting the quiet fall over him once more.

"Did you kill my father, Krycek?" Mulder let the question fall softly into the easy silence, afraid suddenly, of how comfortable he felt.

Krycek sighed heavily.

"No. For the thousandth time, I did not kill your father."

"But you know who did?" Mulder pressed because he had to. Krycek refused to answer for the same reason.

"Why did you do this?" Mulder gestured at the remains of their meal.

"I told you." Krycek's face was serious, but his eyes were doing that twinkling thing again.

"Giving thanks, yeah," Mulder snorted his disbelief.

"I nee..ha..wanted to see you. To talk to you. Just to be sure, you know? It seems like a good opportunity. I knew you would be your usual antisocial self and refuse all invitations to dinner." 

Another long silence filled the room as Mulder searched for and could find nothing to say to that little declaration.

"There's pie." Krycek reached for another white foam container, shattering the quiet with the crunch and squeak of protesting styrene.

"Pumpkin?" Mulder sniffed the air hopefully.

"Yeah. With whipped cream for topping."

"You think of everything, don't you."

"I try. It's a habit."

Mulder felt an unwilling smile split his face. An evil glint appeared in his eyes and he asked nonchalantly, "Are you coming for Christmas?"

"What?" Uncertainty flashed across Krycek's face, and Mulder found he rather liked that expression on him. His smile widened.

"I want to know if I need to get you a present. I hate to get caught out..."

Krycek's soft laughter filled the room as he handed over a slice of pie.

"The prancing and pawing of each little hoof on your "roof" will be me, Mulder." Krycek's answering smile did funny things to Mulder's stomach. "I'll shake the light fixture and leave the door unlocked for you."

Fin


End file.
